


Why Are You Here, Leonid?

by arlenejp



Series: Above-And Well Beyond [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Original Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:21:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15654723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlenejp/pseuds/arlenejp
Summary: An Add-on to the Above and Well Beyond fic. But is also a stand-alone.It's now been twenty-five years since John and Sherlock became lovers.Leonid has fled Russia with his wife and is in London again.





	Why Are You Here, Leonid?

The aroma of disinfectant, the chatter of the doctors and nurses, gliding wheels of gurneys going by the door, the everyday sounds and smells of a hospital.

* * *

John's sister is sitting across the bed from me, whispering words, silly meaningless words, any words to dispell the quietness of the man, her brother, my lover lying dying in the bed before us.

* * *

The staff, all the doctors, look on with discomfort, sympathy, quiet speaking.

* * *

John's cancer came on suddenly and ferociously.  
Even with the best of the best, there was nothing to do but sit and wait.  
Within two years of the findings, John Hamish Watson lay dead.

* * *

I miss my blogger. I miss my flatmate. I miss my partner in love.

* * *

There are times, even though he's been gone five years, I'll sit across from his chair, envision him in it, hear his voice, the slurping of his tea.

* * *

John did come into my life early on but I was too involved with another. I had noticed him and even felt an attraction, but James Moriarty took up the bulk of my late teens into early twenties.  
And now, reflecting back, what a shame it was!  
But it was a lesson well learned.

* * *

And, in my late forties now, lost and alone, I'm surrounded by emptiness. 

* * *

Emptiness in the flat on Baker Street.

* * *

The constant reminder of John, which I keep.  
His books, the medical and science fiction are still on the shelves.  
The James Bond DVDs, the teapot and all those small items that made John Watson the man I loved.  
I cannot rid myself of his presence, even holding onto three of his jumpers, his scent long gone from them, wearing them in the flat.

* * *

Friends had rallied around me during those first weeks without John but they've all gone on with their own lives.

* * *

I try cocaine to deaden the grief, but my body, older than when I used in my teens, rebels. And it warrants a visit, scolding, and the threat of rehab from my brother Mycroft.

* * *

The doorbell rings to interrupt the game show on telly I'm half-heartedly watching. It is late afternoon, I get up, sighing. 

* * *

Mrs. Hudson, our landlady died two months after John. She willed the building to me. It was free and clear, no mortgage.

* * *

It's hard with no John, no Mrs. Hudson.

* * *

Sluggishly I take myself down the steps, sighing before opening the door.  
I must look laughable with my eyebrows up in the air and my mouth down to my knees.  
I step sharply back thinking this is an apparition in front of me.

"Sherlock. My Cinderella. Can I come in?" his accent still strong after all this time.

* * *

Can't move. Can't breathe! It's Leonid! My Russian dancer!

My tongue won't work.

* * *

"Poor John. Too soon he died."  
"What are you doing here? In England!"  
Of all the opening statements I could have made that was the most laughable!

* * *

"I come in okay?" eyes lifting to mine, questioning.  
Forgetting that we're still standing in the open doorway, I move aside to let him enter and trail after him up the stairs. He looks around once in the parlor and sits--in Johns chair."

* * *

In reality that's the only available place he can sit beside my armchair. The desk chair and sofa are covered in papers, books, and clothes.

"My Cinderella, is okay?" surveying the clutter, dishes with unfinished foodstuff, closed curtains and who knows what else his eye spies.  
His nickname for me sets off signals in my brain. That wonderful night with him! That one night!

* * *

Still not sitting, unsure of myself, the world tilting, not able to think beyond the simple," why are you here?"  
I feel a hand press on my shoulder, and find him standing next to me, "Sherlock, sit. We talk."  
That hand, that soft touch. If I turn to face him we'll be too close. Why is too close not good?

* * *

Stepping out away from that hand, I move to the kitchen, " tea Leonid?"  
" Please, take a seat," pointing to the chairs, "Why are you afraid?"  
Snorting," I'm not afraid," but his existence here, his very being has thrown my world into disorder.  
Reluctantly I settle into my chair and let him move back to Johns chair.

* * *

"Kachina, my wife, and I flee country and go to Denmark. Russian government too strict. Denmark Too cold. We move to England, it's three months now ."

Finding my voice,"Are you dancing anymore?"  
"No, no. I have much money now. And body not limber as it was once."

Still not comprehending that this beautiful dancer is sitting across from me, "Why are you here, in my flat, right now?"  


His eyes squint, leaning towards me," I worry about you. John not on earth. What have you been doing?" his arm spreads out indicating this room.

* * *

He's scrutinizing me, the way I'm living and now his eyes trail down my body. I find myself examining Leonid.

* * *

Leonid hasn't changed in these years, maybe a few more lines on his face. His hair still shoulder-length but missing some on the top. And still the slimness of the dancer. The grace of the body.

* * *

My mind goes out to the night, the roses, imagining the smell, the way it permeated the room.

* * *

I had been at a sex party with my lover James. Soon after arriving James was nowhere to be found. 

I was about to walk out, not being comfortable in these situations when, a blonde, tiny-waisted man literally danced up to me, pirouetting, bowing, elegantly laying himself at my feet.  
'I wine you and dine you! Then fuck you,' was his mantra that night. It was half serious and half jest.  
Intrigued by his fun-loving, teasing self, I agreed to meet Leonid for dinner the next night at the club in one of their rooms.

* * *

Yes, there were rosebuds laying on the floor, roses in vases on the buffet, the mantle of the fireplace and the table.  
Dinner was served and a violinist played soft music.  
A huge lounge chair ended the evening with a bewitching, magical seduction.

* * *

Like the on-off switch of a light, the Leonid evening being the on, the light, the return home was the off. The dark, evil night.  
Chaos became the norm during that late night with James' jealousy raging, turning into mental and bodily torture for me. A rape that to this day I still wake in horror, screaming out.

* * *

But-here he is, the light!

My mind won't comprehend why I'm unfeeling, unmoved, like one on the outside.

The dancer gracefully leaves the chair, " I see I not wanted. I leave you. Sorry I intrude."  
So still in my body, mind whirling, torn between asking him to stay, letting him go. I don't get up, don't utter a sound as he walks down the steps and lets himself out.

* * *

The hours' tick away, my mind in a shocked state. What did I do? Why was I so cold, distant?  


Because Sherlock Holmes, if he moved closer to you it would have been all over.  
Our bodies would open to each other and we'd most likely regret the memory forever.  
And he's still married? I saw the wedding ring on his finger.  
What is expected of me?

* * *

During the years of my life I've had three significant lovers. All disappeared! Left me!

* * *

James, the con man, shot by the police when only moments before he had been in my arms.

* * *

Leonid, after that rose night, going back to Russia. Reappearing again soon after James died; leaving me to find a wife in his country.

* * *

John Watson, cancer-ridden, the last one to capture my heart.

* * *

Do I chance another love? Or another round of emotional misery.

* * *

I haven't slept, tossing so badly my blanket is twisted off the bed, my pillow on the floor.  
My stomach growls its need this morning but just thinking of any sustenance; I gag.  
Tea, I'll allow myself John's remedy for all ills.  
Leaning against the counter, hearing the kettle whistle, I hear John's voice towards the end, barely able to put his words together.  
"Weren't we lucky to have the time we did! And, my darling detective, what we had was the best of times."

His last feeble utterance before the disease sent him away. His face smoothing out, all pain has gone from him.

* * *

Shutting the gas and picking up the pot I know John was right.  
We didn't have years and years, but the years we had together were amazing!

* * *

And I'm here, thick-headed self, debating this matter.  
Whatever for?  
Leonid can offer anything, and I am willing to capture it in my hands, to gain possession of it and treasure it.  
Hell, why am I even standing here?  
Did I lose Leonid? Did I in shock, toss out this friend?  
I have no choice. Have to see the one person that can immediately help me.  
I take a carriage to Mycroft's office, and rushing in, slamming the door open, feeling frenzied, my brother sighs upon seeing me.  
"Sherlock, Leonid is here in London. I know. You literally ignored him, didn't you?"

I don't comment. My brother is an ass.

" Where is he staying? You have his address."  
"You could find that out yourself." "I don't have the time or patience," holding out my hand, seeing him disapproving, a paper in hand. He knew before I barged in.

* * *

The hotel is walking distance from Mycrofts' office. 

Walking then running, pushing past people slower, too slow, yells of 'hey watch it,' or worse, I enter the revolving doors of the hotel.  
My finger hits the elevator button repeatedly, wishing it would descend faster.  
I ring the doorbell of the top floor suite, resisting the urge to bang on the door and bellow his name out.  
An old woman opens the door just enough to inspect me, I blurt, "I'm looking for Leonid," out of breath. Anticipation and fear taking the wind out of me.

There is he, directly behind the woman who steps aside letting me take two steps closer to him.

" Leonid, " and suddenly there's a defined space between us. A space we sense not to cross.

* * *

"Why are you here?" mimicking my words from the other day. 

Before I can utter anything, "I come tomorrow to see you, at eleven, " his voice even, and moves out of my sight, into another room.

* * *

I pause, ready to go after him.  
The old woman gently touches my arm, nods her head no and with the slightest tap motions for me to leave.

* * *

Outside, I start my walk back to Baker Street. It's a long way but I need the air and time to think.  
In my pocket is a pack of cigarettes, I light one, then immediately throw it out.

* * *

What is sleep? What is a restful night? I cannot tell.  
Conversation, questions I want to have with the Russian, waiting to be asked, revolve in my head.  
Why am I being so peevish with Leonid? Why does the other half of me yearn for his soft, light touch.

* * *

A shower, a breakfast of toast and tea and when the doorbell rings I'm not sure I'm ready.  
I open the door.

* * *

Taking the measure of each other, I wonder if he's going to turn around and leave.  
I step back to allow him in and follow the dancer up the steps.

"Tea, Leonid?"  
"Yes," and his eyes take everything in again. The books, the state of the parlor and me.

He walks behind me to the kitchen and leans against the doorpost.

"You have lost weight, you are so pale, you are--."  
"Damn, I know all that!" so harsh that Leonid flinches. Putting the kettle down, I step toward him, "I'm so, so sorry. I don't know what's happening."  
"Still feel deep distress about John?"  
"Of course!" again my voice strikes a dissident chord. Slowly, an effort on his part he moves behind me, and before I can turn to him he's stroking my shoulders.  
I tighten up, my breath short.  
" I no hurt you."  
" I don't want you to touch me."  
His hands slide partway down my back and off.  
"We talk," and moves to the parlor.

* * *

I bring out the two full cups and place them on the table.  
Leonid makes no move to pick his up, wandering to the bookshelves.  
His eye catches it right away, the cover facing out.  
Reaching for it he opens to the first page and reads,'My Zolushka, My Cinderella. Your Russian, Leonid.'"  


Taking his eyes off the book he gave me he grins,"you still have. You still have memories."  


Setting the book on the table between the two chairs it's a token reminder of the rose night.

* * *

"Why you not want touch? From me? Your prince?"  
The urge is so strong, to lay my hands and I do. My hands caress his face and abruptly stop, pulling away.  
"Sherlock, explain."  
"No. First, give an account of your life since we last met."

"The sounds you make to me. Bitter, unkind," sighing deeply, "I will give you story of me first."

He sits in the only way the dancer in him does. Graceful, folding himself down into the chair.

* * *

Leonid picks up his cup, takes a sip, licks his lips, which has me draw in a breath.

"I marry Kachina. I dance but do not leave country. She is shy and afraid of travel. I don't go because of her. We have no children. Trouble brews in our country and we go to Denmark. The cold is not good for Katchina and we move to London."

* * *

" But why London? Why are you here?"  
" How can you not know? I hear of John's death. I come to this country to be near you."  
"This is my brothers doing isn't it?" raising my hand and banging it on the arm of the chair.  
Leonid quivers, " What matters? I am here. But not understanding why you hostile?"  
"Did you think I'd rush into your arms? Rush into bed with you?" my agitation, my confusion out and visible.  
No response. He's still as a granite statue. 

* * *

How I ache to rush into those arms! This is one, Sherlock Holmes, you can't analyze, and it's terrifying.  
"Sherlock Holmes, you confuse me. I give what you want. As always," his eyes never leaving my face.  
"You suggest a relationship?"  
" Why you complicate? I give what you want. I say again," still as that granite statue.  
My head goes into my hands, hiding from him," I don't know, I don't know. You enter my life, and I don't know."  
" Maybe I tell you more. Katchina know about me. Know I like men. She cry at first, call me names. We settle into a life."  
Looking up, my hands off my face, "that's why no offspring?"  
He nods, " I tell her about you. Why?" and with the artistry that is the dancer he moves to me and descends, no, floats to the floor.

* * *

"Do you remember I tell you story about me being bee flitting from flower to flower?"  
"I remember it all Leonid."  
His pure joy at life, at love.

* * *

"I lie. From first evening at party. Remember party? You leave me. You go to another room."  
Oh how, wide my smile becomes, and I reach to touch his cheek.

"You were waiting for me at the door and I needed a ride home."

* * *

That memory hurts. I had gone to the party with James, my love at that time, and he disappeared. Probably with another man.

* * *

" I make joke about wine you and dine you! Then fuck you," all the while I'm listening to him my fingers curl into those blonde locks.  
"Yes, that was your goal for the night. To fuck me."  
His whole body language changes. Both hands slide from my knees up to my thighs, his face close to mine.  
My breath hitches at the warmth.

* * *

"Look at me Sherlock Holmes. Close."

Those beautiful dark eyes, those dark eyes throw me off.  
They had once reminded me of James' eyes way back when. Dark, dark also.  
"No, look at me, Leonid Popov. Not James. Me."

Choking, unable to catch myself, my hands slide over him, taking his wrists and push them off me, thrusting them hard towards him.  
He topples back.  
Righting himself, sitting cross-legged, his hands in his lap, head down.  
"Can you not look at me and see me, Leonid, and not James. You did once. Even after he punish you for being with me."

Taking a swipe over my face with my hand, " your eyes. As dark as his, but kind. Even then it was difficult to separate the two."  
"Give me your hand," his right hand, those slim fingers reaching out.  
I take it. He brings it to his mouth, his lips touch, "My Cinderella,moya mechta (my dream) you became only flower I wish to dip into. I never did after that night. "  
My mind slowly takes in those words, that look.

The room, the noises from outside, the ticking clock, vanish into thin air. The only sound I hear is our private breaths.

* * *

" ya lyublyu tebya (I love you) ya lyublyu tebya ( I love you)," each finger of mine grazed by those lips.  
Registering those syllables in my head, "You can't mean that. You left--."  
"In life, one has choices. Some good, some not. I had to go."  
"Family," is the word we both say at the same time.  
"So let me guess, you're parents are gone now."  
He nods, "And Kachina no worry. Father has much money. Manufacturer."

* * *

Standing up, he walks to the fireplace and leans on the mantle, peering into its insides, the grey ash demonstrating the use of it last night. 

* * *

Even at the beginning of his fifties, his body is tight, beautiful.

I slowly move beside him. He turns, "my confession too much for you, moy angel( my angel)"  
Twisting his head with my fingers, I can look into his eyes, and I kiss those lips.  
My insides curl up and my arms reach out to lead him, backward to the couch.  
His legs hit it and he falls back onto it.

" Why?" and even his breath, like mine is throaty.

Without thought, no with thought, only to touch skin, to slide my body on his, to know once more this Russian, I unbutton his trousers. He doesn't resist, lies there, face turned away.  
Down onto him, must do this, must have as my mouth covers his neck, little bites, one hand undoing myself, sliding both of our clothing down, down to where our desires are felt, meet and by the movement finishes us off with groans and a wet stickiness.

* * *

Within a few seconds, I stand and find a cloth to wipe us off.

There's been no eye contact, no small kisses, no caresses.

* * *

The clock ticking, the wind outside, the horses' hoofs clopping on the pavement are heard once more.

* * *

Buttoning himself, Leonid stares at me wide-eyed, "Not my Cinderella, not--," rises quickly, runs to the steps and clambers down and to the outside.

"Leonid," I shout as the door slams.

Slams loud. As loud as the shame in my head, so strong, I double over, crouch to the floor.  
I responded to him as James would have done to me.

* * *

My two opposites! James, abusive, lying, complicit.  
Leonid, kind, concerned, honest.  
All came together in that one astonishing night.

* * *

Why did I attack Leonid?  
Lust? Need? Greed?

* * *

Minutes run into hours, and into days.  
I haven't slept well, don't care for myself, my welfare. Haven't eaten or washed.  
Lying on the sofa, my face buried in the back cushion, my dressing gown draped over me, I hear the creak of the steps. Only Mycroft has the key.  
But that's not his footfall!  
Not even curious to look, I jump at the voice,"You will not sulk like baby." Leonid!!  
Hiding my face in the cushion,"How did you get the key? Why are you here?"  
"You ask questions. Should know answers."  
"My damn brother!"  
"Sherlock," sensing his closeness to the sofa, "you get up and shower."  
Burrowing deeper,"ummm."  
"Stop being child. You go shower, I cook."  
I turn from the waist, giving him just enough of my eyes and he's standing over me, arms folded, "why are you here?"  
His hands on his hips, showing annoyance,"I not answer. You know."  
Reaching for me, I wave away his offer," I can get up on my own."  


My feet touch the floor, I stand, no, I wobble.  
Leonid right there to steady me, taking my elbow.

"I take you to bathroom. Do you want--"?"  
"I can manage a shower by myself," pushing him out of the bathroom and closing the door.

* * *

The water feels good and freshens me.  
Tiptoeing into my room to dress, I smell food, my insides gurgling with the need.  
There's a black garbage bag by the front door, and I know Leonid has cleaned out my smelly refrigerator.

" Food bad, you--."  
"For someone who says he loves me you are being--" I'm stopped by the furious stare, and shut my mouth.

* * *

I sit, my elbows on the table, contemplating the man in front, cooking for me.  
He dishes out eggs and sausage onto a plate and lobs it onto the table, a careless throw, nearly upsetting the plate.  
I have never seen Leonid angry.  
And it distresses me.  
Not eating with me nor staying in the kitchen I eat in silence.

* * *

When I finish and put my dish in the sink, and still no dancer appears, I move into the parlor.  
He's sitting in the armchair, tapping his fingers on the arm.

" I put clean sheets on bed. You have laundry to do."  
He points to the other chair with his finger, "There, and now, please. And no excuse."  
His legs cross at the ankles, his hands fold in his lap, and he waits. 

* * *

At first, I fiddle with my hands but slowly raise my head to eye him.  
Those eyes, those dark, dark eyes. Not the dark menacing eyes as James had.  
But serene, benevolent, and yes, loving eyes.

"Damn Leonid. What I've done is inexcusable. I don't--."  
"Do not give excuse. It is over. We both to blame. Do not say another thing about it."  
"I've asked this question a few times. Why are you here?"  
Leonid gracefully rises, his hand outstretched to me, and pulls me up.  
Leading me to the sofa, he takes a seat, and I perch next to him.  
"Lie down, put head in my lap."  
His fingers lazily touch my cheeks and comb through my hair, his eyes peering over me, a dreamy expression.

* * *

"When we come to England Kachina said,' go to him, Leonid, he need you'."  
A quick kiss on my forehead and his fingers play on my cheek over to my lips tracing from the top to the bottom.  
I refrain from licking those fingers. 

"I not certain. Know you lost John. But Kachina gave me advice. Good woman she is," chuckling.  
Another kiss on my forehead, "she said 'you help him once. You love him. Help him now,' and that is why I am here."  
His eyes bore into mine.

" Do you not understand My Cinderella? I love you still."  
I go to speak but his hand covers my mouth and strokes my face.

" You are going to ask question, but don't. I give answer," bending over and licking my lips, a brief kiss.  
I don't stop or try for more. Even though my body has responded to his touch.

"I will continue to live with Kachina, but would like to be your lover, your friend," another kiss brushes my lips.  
"No, no answer, not now. I leave you and come back in three days. For dinner at five. Here. Give you time," and he raises my head up to sit next to him.  
We face each other, I wait, afraid to spoil the moment.  
His fingers stroke, slide along my face, and his kiss, when it comes is warm, light and full of his expression of love.  
"In three days, my moy sladkiy(my sweet one)," and before I can think about what he's said, he's up and bounding down the steps.

* * *

In three days, in three days I repeat, almost like a prayer.

* * *

How long I sit I do not know, and how long before I go into action I do not know.  
Determined to expunge the junk from each room, the kitchen is my first stop.  


Next step is the laundry and dry cleaners.

* * *

And the hardest of all is tackling all the papers and books stacked on every possible flat surface in the house.

* * *

That takes up two days of busyness. Leaving me worn down physically.

* * *

It is the nights, though, lying in bed, having to rediscover myself. To take back the joy that both John and Leonid had given me.  
Both had shown me incredible love, incredible patience. Incredible self-control.  
I so blundered my way this time around with Leonid.

* * *

The evening of the second day I conceive of a way, a plan to win my dancer back.  
It takes wheedling of food vendors, florists, furniture stores, and much patience on my part, to have everything ready for the big night.

* * *

Dressing in my black trousers, no underwear, a tight purple shirt, unbuttoned to the waistband, I still almost have the figure I did years ago. A softness around the middle, more grey hairs is the major change.

* * *

Pacing the room, checking this and that, moving one thing here and moving it back.  
I restlessly wait.

* * *

The doorbell rings and I spring down the steps, open the door and let him step in first.  
He sniffs deeply, turns to me with a knowing grin, and slowly ascends the rose petaled covered steps.  
White roses sit in large vases; the floor is covered with petals.  
Candles and a lit fireplace illuminate a table set with gold silverware and dishes.  
Near the fireplace is a white furry chaise lounge chair. Wide enough for three people. One red rose rests in the center along with more petals.  
Stepping to the table I pull out a chair and as he sits, my lips lean in to find contact with his neck.  
I sit across from him.  
His breath dives out, and swiftly in.

* * *

"lyubov' vsey moyey zhizni (love of my life), you take breath away from me. You remember."  
" How could I ever forget the most dramatic night, and person, of my life."

* * *

The downstairs door opens and two men walk up the steps. One with a violin and the other with our carte du jour for the evening.  
Leonid laughs joyously, cupping his face with his hands.  
His gaze moves to the lounge chair, nodding an acceptance. It's inviting, suggesting.

* * *

" Dinner first, fuck after," my words repeating his from years ago.

A warm chuckle as the memory is sharp in both our minds.

* * *

Yes, Sherlock, this is good. It's going to be an exceptional evening.

* * *

Our meal is eaten in silence with the violin speaking the words for us.

The violinist and the chef have left, completing their work for the night.

* * *

There's an emotion, a drawing in of breath, an anticipation.

Moving my chair and standing I reach to the sideboard, hand Leonid a red package with a white ribbon, and on one knee I kiss the fabric and set it on the red tablecloth.

" You cannot open it yet,"  
I melt at the moon-eyed, slightly upturned lips. Is there a trace of tears in those dark eyes? 

"Would you care for dessert my belle rose?"( lovely rose) in French.  
Taking my offered hand we advance to the lounge. 

* * *

It's my body that lies over his, my fingers that slowly unbutton, unleash his body to me.  
My lips that trace down his skin.  
With patience, with each touch of my fingers signaling my love.

* * *

He's my prince, my king, to be worshipped, indulged, fawned over.  
My nakedness against his, sliding, teasing, unlocking the flood tide of sounds and ending in shattering ripples of love.

* * *

Sweet kisses, sweet murmurings.

" You know now sladkaya lyubov (sweet love). How it is to find soul in you."

* * *

I find a cloth and wash us, and hand him his package.

"Not a book, angel'skoye litso( angel face)," tearing open the paper.  
" A box?" lifting the lid the music box plays 'Swan Lake' and on the mirrored surface a ballet dancer, a man pirouettes.

"Where you find a man? Swan Lake is for a woman."  
"It took lots of arguing and much money to get him to make it this way."

* * *

"My Sherlock, my Cinderella."  
"My ballet dancer, Leonid."

* * *


End file.
